


Three Couriers, One Mojave

by Siha_Shepard



Category: Fallout: New Vegas, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Adept (Mass Effect), Alternate Universe - Fallout, Alternate Universe - Human, Attempt at Humor, Bad Puns, Caesar's Legion, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dead Money DLC, Engineer (Mass Effect) - Freeform, F/M, Honest Hearts DLC, In-game Dialogue, Inappropriate Humor, Kepral's Syndrome Doesn't Exist, Lonesome Road DLC, Mass Effect crossover, Misuse of Biotics, Mixed Endings, More Modern Music, Multi, My First Work in This Fandom, New Vegas Radio, No Gods No Masters, No Shepard without Vakarian, Non-Canon Endings, Old World Blues DLC, Paragade (Mass Effect), Paragon Commander Shepard, Party Banter, The House Always Wins, Vanguard (Mass Effect), Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2018-11-14 12:05:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11207721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siha_Shepard/pseuds/Siha_Shepard
Summary: A story of three couriers all sharing the same last name...and the same goal of payback, all over one damned chip.





	1. Ain't That A Kick In The Head?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three couriers, one bullet each, and a good salarian--Erm, I mean, samaritan who simply wants to help.

#### Three Couriers, One Mojave

 

_Like a fella once said, "Ain't that a kick in the head!"_

 

The words echoed and floated over the rocks, crags, flora, creeping geckos, and sticky night air of the Mojave, so fine that not even the full moonlight could catch it. The moonlight did catch, however, a man with slicked hair, a glint in his eye, and a checkered suit standing over one kneeling figure with a bags over his head. The lone figure was kneeling over a deep ditch, the shadows of a makeshift graveyard being the only witnesses to this heinous crime. The figure itself was male, constantly turning his covered head, almost bargaining with the man standing above the unfortunate courier.

"Shame you had to get caught in the middle of all this. Must seem like real bad luck." The man in the checkered suit mumbled as cigarette smoke wreathed about his head and wafted through the air, all while he plucked a silver pistol from his coat pocket and loaded it with the speed of a gifted biotic hopped up on illicit red sand. With a sigh, he raised the pistol at the head of the man and prepared to let one single bullet fly, but not without a few parting words. "You know, kid...I bet you don't even know why you're here. But, the truth is...the game was rigged from the start." As soon as those words left his mouth, the bullet flew from the barrel of the pistol and into the front of the man's sackcloth-covered skull, its owner collapsing and falling into the hastily dug shallow pit in the earth. With a snap of the fingers and a gesture, the body was buried with haste, fearing of being seen and caught.

However, little do the three of them know, their crime was witnessed; by the moonlight, the cigarette butts left behind by the man in the checkered suit, the creeping mantises and geckos...and one sole, white-haired doctor clad in red and white, with only a pistol at his side, hidden amongst the rocks in plain sight.

_**** Some time later... ****_

The white-haired medic, after craning his head about in fear of the three criminals returning to the scene of the crime, saw that all was calm, and emerged from his hiding spot. "One male body, one bullet. Possible smothering and asphyxiation by dirt from burial, somewhat effective." He muttered as his scarred hands dug into the earth with little success. After a bit of...digging around the burial site, he discovered that one of the foolish criminals had left behind a shovel; the doctor put it to good use and unearthed the hapless bagged body. However, as he pulled the body from the crude shallow grave, he had noticed, no, _felt_ something. Something that shouldn't be there after what had just transpired. A bit of warmth, from the alleged corpse.

"No, still some warmth. Can't be. Impossible! High impact shots at short range should shut down most cortices in the brain. ...Must seek help." The doctor mumbled with a quick draw of breath as he piled the man's body on his shoulders, curious as to how he could possibly survive a bullet between the eyes. With such a weight on his shoulders, it was a damn near miracle at how he shouldered the weight all the way back to the tiny town of Goodsprings, all the way up to a meager house that sat at the top of a hill, its lights still on, a female figure pacing about at the front window. The doctor, his white, unkempt hair sticking to his forehead from sweat, unceremoniously placed the body next to the door and knocked on it. The greeting he received was a glare of worry and concern from a petite, white-haired woman with a good deal of wrinkles on her face, still in her nightgown; the sight greeting her at the door would no doubt add a few more.

"For the love of God, Mordin, what did you do _now_?" The exasperated woman groaned as the aide in question began to drag the man's bagged body into the house. The doctor responded with silence as he continued his work, muttering about how he "needed to hurry to preserve warmth". "Mordin, I swear, if you were the cause of this, you'll wish _you_ were this man's corpse! Now explain to me what's going on!" She pleaded with the man, who had just begun to bring in the formerly dead man's body as he turned to her and quickly explained as if he were high on Rocket, "Witnessed an execution-style murder, Chakwas. Bullet between the eyes. Somehow he is still alive...must keep it that way." The white-haired man hauled the unfortunate man inside the house, only to find that Chakwas was already gripping him by his heels and awaiting the other end to be lifted, glaring at him. "If this man happens to make it, you owe me a new bottle of Serrice brandy, Mordin."

"Happy to oblige, Chakwas. Need to get this patient on a table, stat. Get best medical supplies. Going to be a long night."


	2. Some S.P.E.C.I.A.L help and introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The courier awakens and meets the good salarian--Uh, samaritan doctors who helped them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, regarding the in-game hair style and facial hair for our...*main* Courier 6, the MaleShep, all of his hair is Auburn in the Blast Back style with the "Rough Beard" style of facial hair. Yup, a redhead male Shepard~! As for the other two Courier 6's, my two FemSheps, their appearance is more grounded in the ME customization style; they'll be revealed soon~.
> 
> Also, here is my headcanon on what the VATS device may look like since it isn't exactly shown in Fallout.
> 
> Thank you so much for the views, kudos, and comments! I hope to see more in the future! I'd like to hear suggestions from fellow New Vegas and Mass Effect fans about what may happen next~.

The sun rose over the Mojave and illuminated the inside of the doctors' house in Goodsprings. Voices could be heard, hushed and anxious as a lone male body began to stir and awaken from a damn near miraculous slumber. His green eyes snapped open against the invading sunlight that filtered through the dusty makeshift surgical bedroom. He had heard voices, one male, chattery, anxious, and quick; the other was slower, female, a bit more controlled and steady. It was then he heard mumbles of "He's up" and "Recovery...successful".

"Ah, good. Recovery was successful. Must say, you were quite lucky...or, perhaps, unlucky. Suggest not to strain yourself."  
The owner of the quicker voice came into focus; he was quite tall and wiry but hunched over, with a bit of tanned skin courtesy of the heat. Sharp gray eyes were showing well against a few wrinkles that betrayed his age, and parted hair as white as the light from a flash bang grenade, which seemed to nearly stick up straight on one side but shoddily slicked down on the other. But what caught the male's attention was the scar that seemed to hover not too far above his quick-moving mouth. 

"Ah, ah, ah, no sudden movements. Best to take things slowly. Did survive a gunshot wound to the cranium, after all, Chakwas."  
The elderly man mumbled as he placed a hand on the younger man's scarred shoulder, worry in his features. The woman, however, was more lenient.

"But he can move, Mordin. I suggest he start by standing on his own two legs before he does anything as rash as running about the room."  
She chuckled lightly as the younger man turned to the woman in question; she was also elderly, evidenced by her silver hair that was cut and fixed into a short bob, and a a few wrinkles in her fair skin. Her eyes were, alert, and an odd mix of blue, green, and gray. Despite how old the woman looked, she was quite active, moving about the medical station as if it were her second skin. The accent in her voice was from a place he heard about before, but the young man couldn't quite place the name of it. He turned to her with a look of worry in his green eyes, hesitant to even stand up.

"No need to worry, young man, everything is all sewed up, sterilized, and the lead is plucked out! 99 percent of the lead, I believe. Anyways, some fragments of your cranium took quite a bit to find and solder to the rest of your skull, but, everything seems to be in order. But, if it's for the best, you be the judge."  
The doctor named Chakwas softly chuckled as she held up a mirror in front of the surprised young man's face, allowing him to survey the good doctors' hard work and effort from salvaging him and dislodging that life-changing bullet.

What was reflected in that mirror was a pair of sharp green eyes staring back at him in slight surprise, surrounded by fair skin, a faint scar along the lower left side of his jaw. His nose was a tad bit large, not too straight; his brow was fairly high, holding somewhat thick, curved eyebrows the color of auburn. His cheeks were a bit thin, but high, his jaw strong. His auburn hair, tousled and a bit...wild, to put it mildly, only stopped a couple of inches past his ears. As far as he could remember, this was how he looked before that damn bullet dug into his head. Mostly. Now, as for--

"Now then, Mordin, what's the boy's name?"  
The woman asked of the older male doctor, who had wheeled in an odd looking machine with numbers that ranged from one to ten, just as she turned to him.

"Excellent question, Chakwas. Wish there was an answer. Perhaps he remembers...does he?"   
The doctors turned to the redhead with a worried yet eager look, hoping that the memory of his name doesn't bring up too much stress on his newly-fixed brain.

It did start as a light, tickling sensation in the back of his head, at first. It gradually turned into a stinging feeling that felt a damn lot like having hot grease pop onto the skin after a mere few seconds...before the feeling left as quickly as it came. It came to him like a rush, his head pounding a bit as he tried to sound out his name, his voice quiet and scratchy from misuse.

"T...Ti....Timo....Timothy....She...My name....Shepard....Shit, what happened..."

"Ha, interesting! Capable of speech, somewhat fluent. Hoarseness understandable. Quite the success. Will prepare your new brandy bottle shortly, Karin."

"You'd better, Mordin. Now, my boy, this may seem urgent to you," The woman placed a hand on his back and slowly, gently, pushed him forward in an attempt to have him stand up. "But, we must make sure that everything is in working order. It's not every day someone simply comes back from death with a bullet to the head. Now, Timothy, take your time..." 

Timothy Shepard's steps were wobbly, knees scraped up as he began to move forward, chuckling in surprise and disbelief at the sight of him actually walking across the dusty floor...and right towards the blinking number machine that Mordin had wheeled in, no less. He reached the machine that called itself the "Vit-o-matic Vigor Tester" in bold letters that reminded him of stories his parents told him about things called "carnivals", whatever those were supposed to be. Timothy looked at each of the labels in bold print, each of them explained by the doctor Chakwas in simple terms, starting with the first, her clipboard at her hip to quickly take down notes.

* * *

 ** _S_ ** _trength  
_

"Oh, strength is very important when you step outside of this house, namely how much things you can carry. Now, Timothy, can you count from one to ten?"

"Y-Yeah...One, two....three, four, five...six, seven, eight, nine...ten."

"Well done. Now, out of those numbers, with one being the worst and ten being the best, how strong do you think you are?"   
She asked, her voice slow and careful as her sharp eyes kept watch over the young man.

There was a bit of a pause, then a mumble in reply.

"...Six." With a nod, the good doctor Mordin pressed the corresponding button, lights flashing as he told Timothy of the next section.

* * *

 ** _P_ ** _erception_

"Being in the Mojave wasteland, perception is  _very_ useful. Highly recommended, alongside intellect. Useful for sense of direction, also for detecting enemies...easier to see when they're coming. Now then, from one to ten, measure your perception." The white haired doctor advised him as the redhead thought for a moment. In his reply, Timothy said nothing but held up six fingers, the doctor Mordin keeping it in mind as he pressed forward. Just as he was about to speak, however, Chakwas took over in narrating the third section with ease.

* * *

_**E** ndurance_

"Ah, yes, Endurance," she chuckled, a glint in her eye. "Something I'm  _quite_ familiar with. Timothy, endurance is quite helpful when you're out in there in the great wide wasteland, whether it's patching yourself up with medicine, fighting off poisonous insects, or..."

"Chakwas...Highly advisable  _not_ to say what's expected to say."

"Even..."  
She struggled to hold back a chuckle as best as she could while the unfortunate redhead suspected what was to come...and braced himself.

"Miss Chakwas, please don't."

" _Enduring_ what ever else the Mojave has to offer!" The laughs tumbled out of her lips like sweet water rushing down a river amidst the groans from the two redheads that had to endure what the good doctor had to say.

"Miss...Chakwas?"

"Oh, yes, Timothy?"   
The laughs began to fade, the silver-haired woman catching her breath from her verbal assault on humor.

"Please....don't say that ever again."

"Agreed. Highly recommended."

"Oh, all right you two. Now, Mordin, I think it best to spare the poor man and have you explain the matter of Endurance to him instead."  
Chakwas laughed lightly, her eyes laughing along with her as she moved to collect a few medical supplies, namely a few Doctor's Bags, some gauze, some tweezers, and a crutch. The hunching older male took in a sharp breath before moving between Timothy, who was still recovering from Chakwas'...witty wordplay, and the Vigor Tester. 

"Now then, as she was saying, endurance is key. Endurance aids effectiveness of medicine as well as overall health. Can be especially important when resisting inevitable things such as radiation and poison from Nightstalkers and....Cazadores. Timothy, go to the machine and show your endurance. Would be fascinating to see, considering how you were...discovered."  
Mordin exhaled that breath as quickly as he drew it in, slicking down his gravity-defying hair as gracefully as a drunken Deathclaw on the hottest day of the year. Timothy hobbled to the machine, his slightly shaky hands on the buttons as he read off the numbers and words as best he could before finally picking a number that best described his current feeling: 5. 

"Fascinating. But, understandable. Would imagine you would feel that way. Now then, Doctor Chakwas, explain the next subject. And please... _no joking_."  
Mordin sent a light glare towards the silver-haired woman, making Timothy chuckle a bit, glad to see that someone was taking things seriously. The woman nodded in response as she glided away from the medical table to the Tester and pressed a button, moving on to the screen that displayed the next subject.

* * *

 ** _C_ ** _harisma_

"Hmmm, charisma. Timothy, having charisma is important whenever you head out into the wastelands, especially since you certainly won't be alone. Going on and on in a near-scorching wasteland without anyone to interact will no doubt put a strain on your sanity, after all. So, it's essential that you have some semblance of how to talk as well as how to strike a deal." She explained, gaining the air of a teacher lecturing a student on the importance of manners. The mention of deals, however, made Timothy's head throb a bit in a slight fit of recollection, his green eyes staring off as a brief memory took over.

 _"So, it's settled, then; we're sticking together in this damned Mojave sand trap, Timothy. Agreed, Marie?"_  
_"Agreed, Betty. Deal, Timmy-boy?"  
_ _"Ugh, my name's Timothy, not 'Timmy-boy'! And yeah...Deal."_

"Timothy? Timothy! Timothy Shepard, wake up!" 

 His eyes snapped back with a start, surprised by the noise of clapping hands ringing in his ears. His head swiveled in slight panic, taking in his surroundings once more as Chakwas gazed on with a worried expression. Not wanting to disorient the young man even further, she spoke slowly and carefully.

"Timothy...are you alright? Can you hear me clearly? Can you see clearly? Is any part of your head throbbing when it isn't moving?"  
Her features, along with the other white-haired doctor's, were marked and twisted with worry as they proceeded to ask him what had caused him to suddenly stare off into space, his face adorned with a blank yet thoughtful look.

The answer was short but slow.

"Y-Yeah...Yeah, I'm fine, Doctor Chakwas. I think. Uh, what happened...?" He mumbled, green eyes roaming the room before landing on the two concerned medics. One of them spoke up, a thought, a suggestion coming to mind.

"Hmmm, recalling a memory, perhaps. Increased heartrate and perspiration, dialating pupils, increased rate of breath. Must have been...fairly positive. Possible due to the reconstruction of the frontal lobe." Doctor Solus spoke up, one eyebrow quirked up in thought as Timothy confirmed his theory with a nod.

"Yeah, a memory. It was...kinda good. I heard two women talking to me; I remember their names, but, not their faces. Their faces are foggy, though. But, uh, Doctor Chakwas, can we continue with this? I wanna keep going." The tall redhead sighed as he turned to the shorter doctor, who asked him if he was truly sure he wanted to continue with the makeshift evaluation. His answer was a nod. 

"Alright, then. In terms of Charisma, Timothy, where do you believe you stand? No bragging, now." She lightly admonished him as a mother would to a child as Timothy shuffled over to the Vigor Tester and pressed the button with a shrug; the result was a strong, resounding 5.

"Huh. Humble. Most would put themselves between seven and ten."  
Mordin snickered, sending Timothy into a fit of chuckles and giggling; the thought of others bragging about how....wordy they were kind of amused him.

"Now now, onto the next subject, you two! And Mordin, this next one concerns both of us!" Chakwas couldn't help but grin as she pressed the button on the Vigor Tester to move on to the next section, which displayed, in equally bold letters:

* * *

_**I** ntelligence_

Mordin couldn't help but smirk at this.  
"Is that purely coincidence, Chakwas? No, couldn't be. Rigged, most likely."

"Rigged? Doctor Solus, how dare you accuse me of rigging the Vigor Tester! Sure, I lack the... _smarts_ to rig this type of machine, but I definitely have the....", she snickered while the doctor and the patient braced themselves yet again.  
" _Know_ how to figure out how much  _brain_ power Timothy has! Ha!" She cackled with glee, leaving the two males groaning in  _mental_ agony.

"Yeeeeaaaah, doc? Remind me to not get a check-up from Doctor Chakwas  _ever_ again."  
"Glad to. Particular bottle of Serrice brandy much too strong."

"Alright, alright, you two. On to business. Intelligence requires strategy, intellect, and know how of how things function. Knowing how things function in the Mojave can be quite beneficial, namely with fixing things, using medicine, and using scientific matter to solve problems! Having high intelligence can prove to be especially useful when in...particularly grim situations; having a cool head is one thing, but having a cool head as well as knowing how to use it is another thing entirely."  
Chakwas shared a smirk with the other good doctor as another memory came wriggling into the brain of their patient.

 _It was hot, the three of us were walking through the streets Primm on assignment from the boss._  
_"Now Tim, you have to think, and think quickly. Thinking is imperative to being a Courier." The voice of a female on my left, advising and careful. Eloquent. Betty, without a doubt._  
_"Oh, come on, thinking can save your ass...conversation-wise. But getting the fuck outta dodge can do wonders for your lifespan." Another female on my right, short-haired, chuckling, and easily excited. Grinning. Shortest. Eldest. Headstrong. Doubtless, Marie._  
_The three of us couriers. The Three Shepards._

"Oh no, not again! Mordin, at this rate, we might as well administer adrenaline shots whenever he slips into these trances!"  
Chakwas bemoaned as Mordin shook his shoulder, jolting the redhead back into reality with a start. His auburn locks flew about his head as he tossed his head about, trying to clear his mind.

"Oh...sorry about that. Another memory. This time, it was...clearer. But only a bit clearer. Speaking of memories, uh, can we get to the rating now?"  
Timothy asked sheepishly, feeling quite guilty at slipping into what these two would call 'solipsism' later on as they tried to patch him up and get him back onto his feet again. He shuffled towards the Vigor Tester and, after a bit of pondering, made a selection...a selection that raised eyebrows.

"Really, Shepard? You're...going with  **that** number?"  
"Agreeing with Shepard. Appears to be sensible choice. Modesty gets one nowhere, especially in the wastes."

They gazed for a bit at the number he selected.

A strong number.

Seven.

"Well, that says something, alright. Now...onto the last two, shall we, Mordin?"  
"Indeed. Would like to continue before the day is done."

With a nod, he presses the button that flips the screen to the penultimate section.

* * *

  _ **A** gility_

"Now  _this_ is quite essential, Timothy, so please pay attention. No slipping away this time, are we clear?" Chakwas admonished the much younger man as he nodded vigorously, doing his best to keep himself focused and not let his mind get nostalgic again. "Alright, then. Being agile can be quite the talent out in the wastelands; it can depend on how well you work with firearms, how easily you can sneak about around enemies and...other unsuspecting folks, and...ah. The...prototype." She ended with an annoyed groan as the silver-haired male perked up, a  _very_ eager grin on his face as soon as he heard the word 'prototype'.

"Ah yes, quite fascinating! Have been handing it to patients to test reflexes after sustained treatment; seems to be working well after several years of tinkering. Final product  _very_ accurate. Suggest he use it. Haven't thought of a name that would stick. Yet. Still in progress." The male doctor chattered with a chuckle and a thoughtful look as he drew in another breath to speak again. However, his moment was stolen by his exasperated mentor.

"Ugh, Mordin, for heaven's sakes! You named it the 'Vault-Tec Assisted Targeting System' ages ago; 'VATS' would use far less energy to say!"

"Aha! Thank you, Chakwas! Splendid name! Couldn't have thought of a better choice. Preferred using the shorter version; would like to keep infamous unethical company at bay. Now then." Another breath was drawn as the lanky doctor zipped about the...slightly confused young man, testing his reflexes on his joints, extremities, rate of reaction, and hand-eye coordination; it all lasted about ten minutes and left Mordin with a satisfactory answer. "Very well. Healthy. Upper extremities as well as fingers especially adept. Allow me, Timothy." Doctor Solus held out a device that appeared to look like a twisted bobby pin or a contorted paper clip in one hand and, after one swift movement, a syringe filled with what is assumed to be anesthetic in the other hand. The grin on his face was nothing short of eager.  
_Very_ eager, much to Timothy's chagrin.

"No. No, Mordin! No needles. Fuck needles. Get that shit **away** from me, Doc!"  
"Highly suggested that you remain calm, Shepard. Cannot insert implant into anxious patient. Results prove...messy. Hold still."

The younger man's response was to swerve away from the ominous needle as quick as he can, profanities spewing from his mouth as he tripped over a few crutches and old pre-War books, Mordin following not too far behind, syringe clutched tight in his fingers and a rather...eager grin wrinkling his face. Timothy was quick, but Mordin was far more tenacious; a misplaced chair and a well-placed foot tripped up the patient one too many times. The doctor was victorious, much to Timothy's chagrin. He was unwillingly dragged back towards the Vigor Tester with a resigned but glum look on his recently fixed features, Mordin practically singing his triumphant return, but the good doctor resigned to simply humming instead.

"Now then, before you run away again, procedure will be simple. Very simple. Only slight pain, slight discomfort; should last for...five minutes." The older doctor advised the reluctant young man as he applied the anesthetic to an area on his upper arm and sterilizing the small, twisted piece of metal several times before making an incision and carefully— _delicately_ —sliding it in smooth as butter between near stark white bone, deep red sinew and muscle, and fair flesh. All of this occurred while Timothy Shepard was multitasking: craning his head away from the messy sight, screwing his eyes shut, and trying his best not to throw up all over Chakwas, who was trying to occupy—well,  _pacify—_ the fearful young man with pats on his shoulder and reminders of how well he would do once the three of them were done with the Vigor Tester. Doctor Solus did indeed keep his word; the procedure was over within minutes, leaving only a slightly burning, numbing sensation behind on his upper arm.

"...Thanks, Doc." Timothy mumbled as he glanced at Mordin's handiwork; it appeared to be practically seamless, with only a slight bit of redness decorating the area of entry for the implant, no sign or feeling of any metal poking out anywhere between his bones, muscle, or skin. This gave the young man a sigh of relief. "Okay, now that... _that's_ done with, can I put in my score now?" The redhead mumbled as the doctors' nodded in approval, eager to see what Timothy would choose. He shuffled towards the Vigor Tester and glanced at the numbers on the board, his recent harrowing experience still fresh in his mind. His response was, to be fair, quite expected: a simple, honest, modest 5. 

"Oh, of course he would choose that one, Mordin. You were  _much_ too eager with how you handled the VATS implant."  
"Ha. Nonsense. Would like to say the matter was handled well."  
"Mordin...the boy nearly broke both of his legs trying to run from you. And you looked like a man doubly possessed, running after him like that!"  
"...Still a success. The final section begins."

* * *

  _ **L** uck_

 

"Chakwas, don't say anything.  _Please._ " The redheaded Shepard begged the silver-haired woman, who had a wicked grin crossing her face and a glint in her eyes. 

"Well, you would consider yourself..." She leered, the male doctor wincing and bracing himself for what was to come as he adjusted his tattered lab coat, his patient fearing of hearing yet another onslaught of horrible humor. " _Lucky_ enough to be here, but, then again, most would be pretty  _fortunate_ to be in your place right now!" Doctor Karin Chakwas laughed and snorted in triumph as both males let out a agonized groan, her smile nearly splitting her face as the two men attempted to recuperate from her...humor. 

"And who's the head doctor here?" Timothy asked wearily, glancing at Mordin, who gestured to Chakwas with his face buried in one tanned, deft hand.  "You've got to be kidding. She's your  _boss_?" The redhead lamented, quite surprised at the show of...maturity the female doctor was displaying. 

"Afraid so. But, not all bad. Gained hefty experience, alongside Followers expertise. Many stories to tell. Shall tell you later...should we ever meet again." The silver-haired man smiled fondly as Chakwas finally managed to compose herself, the laughing and snorting replaced by deep breaths and a...slightly embarrassed chuckle. "Now then, let's proceed." Mordin declared as he sat Timothy down in a nearby patched-up chair, Chakwas following behind.

"Now then, Timothy, since this is the last section, we're going to do this simply. No antics, no laughing, completely quick. I have only one question, my boy: Have you, at  _any_ point in your life up to this point, ever felt lucky?" The silver-haired female asked the young man, who sat in thought, a pensive look on his face. His fingers drumming his thigh as he opened his mouth to speak, his voice steady.

"Suffice to say...yeah, I have. Sure, I may not be the most staunch believer in luck, but, I've had way too many close calls to count as just coincidence. So, yeah, I guess I'm lucky." Timothy chuckled as he shook his head at the memories of  _numerous_ brushes with death averted by sheer timing or a good Samaritan on standby. He stood, his eyes alight as he advanced towards the machine and put in his number, which made both doctors do a bit of a double take. 

Mordin grinned. "Ha! Amusing! Had a feeling he'd pick that one."  
Chakwas held a stern line in her features. "Hmmm, I don't know Mordin, I was expecting him to go a bit...lower."  
Both doctors stared at the number he had selected: a strong and boastful 6.

"So, docs, I'm done! I can walk, talk, do all types of shit now! Can I leave now, _please?_ " Timothy urged, eager to get out of the dusty Goodsprings house on the hill. He wanted to see the world, meet friends...and find the dickless checker-suited rat that shot him. The two doctors looked at each other, chuckling at the young patient's eagerness. One of them spoke up, eager to help him take his first steps.

Mordin smiled, "Glady. Would love to have you out and about. But not without protection." He sauntered towards a metal crate on a nearby shelf and hefted it onto the foot of the hospital bed where Timothy once lay. Timothy bounded towards the crate and opened it hastily, much to Mordin's amusement; inside were several stimpaks, two doctor's bags, a laser pistol in good condition along with a good 20 energy cells, and a suit of leather armor. "Hope that all of this is to your liking, Tim—" The male doctor was cut off by his patient pulling him into a tight, tearful hug, thanking him profusely. 

"Ahem, I believe I had many a part in stitching you up, Timothy. Isn't that worthy of a hug—Oh ho, my!" Doctor Chakwas laughed as she was tugged into the grateful embrace by the redhead who declared with a broad grin, "I'm fucking ready to go! Let's get out there!", only to be silenced by a hand on his shoulder from the male doctor.

"Only if I come with you. Should be fun, just like my time in the Followers. So, shall we head out?" Mordin asked with a grin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No need to worry, there will be PLENTY of bad puns to come! Good luck...ENDURING them all with me, but, then again, to read my stories and actually like them, I'm surprised at your...SPECIAL sense of humor.  
> I'msosorry.
> 
> Also, hooray, the third chapter is coming! And I'm sorry for stretching this whole second chapter out; I really wanted to expound on the whole S.P.E.C.I.A.L aspect of character creation in New Vegas rather than just picking a number and having Doc Mitchell comment on it. Also, since this is Fallout New Vegas AND Mass Effect, certain roles will be compounded into certain characters and others will simply be left out. Guess who Mordin is going to be~.


	3. Out of the house, into the world!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one Courier takes on a whole Powder Gang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't wait to hear which person from Mass Effect you guys think will be which person from New Vegas~.
> 
> Another thing to add: I can't fit EVERY Mass Effect character into every New Vegas role; some Mass Effect characters will not be present, like, Diane Allers for example, and some New Vegas characters may or may not be present, like Benny in the beginning of the story(yes, he and a few other NV-NPCs will remain). 
> 
> Once again, have fun guessing who will be who...especially who will be playing Mr. New Vegas while I'm bringing more modern music to New Vegas Radio~.

 

The sight that the redhead was graced with was ruined by the searing heat of the Mojave sun, which felt like fire on his skin. He shielded his green eyes from the harsh rays with one leather-covered hand and surveyed the sleepy town of Goodsprings; a small saloon near the edge with a general store next to it, a few houses dotting the sparse space next to the doctors' house, a cemetery up atop a hill near the east, and a red building, most likely a schoolhouse, near the few houses that were left standing. "So...this is Goodsprings, huh?" Timothy muttered as he took in the sight before him.  _I should have stuck with going out in my damn underwear rather than this leather Mordin gave me..._ , he thought to himself as he took his first steps outside, the sun scorching his skin like the ground he was stepping on.

"Of course it is. I suspect that you have everything we gave you, yes?" Chakwas asked the young man, her hand on his shoulder in concern.

"Ah! Forgot one thing! Had this during period in Vault 21, stayed there long after fallout had ceased, before travelling with Followers. Proved _very_ useful. Called a 'Pip Boy'." Mordin chirped as he zipped back inside of the house for a few brief moments, only to emerge minutes later with a gloved device with a large screen that reminded Timothy of those entertainment machines that used to be quite popular before the fallout; they were called televisions. The doctor slipped the device onto his former patient's hand, who gazed at it with curiosity. "Pip Boy is quite useful; monitors health, items collected, carry weight, ammunition, errands needing to be done, standings with people you meet, and especially a radio! Heard that New Vegas radio is quite popular." Mordin chuckled as Timothy examined the device with glee.

"Hot damn! Ree would have loved to have this!" The courier grinned as he pulled Mordin into a tight hug before eagerly racing into town, kicking up light dust behind him as he raced into the sleepy side-of-the-road town. The doctor sped after his charge, wanting him to slow down and relax before doing anything else, as well as explain who this 'Ree' person was. By the time the two males had caught up with each other, the white-haired older male had spotted the young man talking to the local help around town inside of the Prospector's Saloon: a stern-looking brunette named Sunny Smiles, Varmint rifle slung across her back amd faithful dog Cheyenne trotting behind her. 

Timothy moved towards the door with Sunny, wanting to get his shooting lessons underway until he glanced at a panting, heaving Mordin. "Doc! Hey, what's with you, getting old on me?" He grinned, his green eyes flashing with excitement while Mordin's grey spheres simply rolled as he shook his head.

"Hardly. Had to find you. Much too eager. Move much too quickly....needed to know who this 'Ree' is. Friend of yours?" The fairly wrinkled doctor asked as he ran a tanned hand through near gravity-defying hair, curious to know who this 'Ree' is. 

"Yeah, she is, but, I'll tell you more once I get back in the saddle again. I remember being a pretty good shot, but, as you can see, it's good to get back to basics." Timothy sighed as the three moved to the back of the old saloon, wanting to get down business to defeat...glass beer bottles and geckos near the Goodsprings source? Oh, joy. "Oh, come on, there's gotta be more than this." The eager redhead groaned before enduring a light slap on the shoulder from the good doctor.

"Take your time. No need to rush. Can't tackle a Deathclaw in two seconds. Heard tell of a supply cache in the old schoolhouse. Could show you how to unlock a safe. Or pick locks. Whichever comes first." Mordin advised him with a light chuckle at the young man's impatience before finding himself in the young man's dust cloud yet again, the two of them bounding towards the old and decrepit schoolhouse near the edge of town. After a much needed lesson in how to hack a lock and pick computers, both Timothy and Mordin felt that a fitting reward was necessary: a much-needed drink at the resident watering hole, The Prospector's Saloon. Luckily, Mordin got a bit of a headstart on the way inside due to Timothy being stopped by the mutterings of Easy Pete; something about "Caesar...a Dam....NCR taking it back...keep a gun handy". Before the young man could ask what the former prospector was talking about, he was dragged inside of the dusty Saloon.

The building's interior were, as expected, dusty; a pool table and a jukebox sat near the back and to the right of the messy bar, decked with various bottles of many shapes, labels, and sizes alongside a broken radio. A red-haired, middle aged woman stood in front of it, taking a defiant stance against a tall, imposing, dark skinned man in an...odd blue outfit.

"Listen, we take what we want and we _want this town_."  
His voice was deep, harsh, and demanding, his posture as straight as a rod.

"Well, that's too damn bad, Cobb." The woman growled, hardly intimidated by the man's attempt at coercion. "You ain't getting Goodsprings, not while I'm still standing."

This seemed to garner the attention of three angry glares: one from Sunny Smiles, her rifle out and leveled at the blue bully's head, and the other two from both Mordin and Timothy, their hands on their pistols, ready to fire at the slightest hostile movement from the antagonizer, who promptly backed off and away from the glaring red-heads....and one _very_ protective attack dog named Cheyenne.  
"All right, all right, fine. But this shit ain't over. The Powder Gangers aren't known for giving up what they set their sights on." The man named Cobb snarled as he shouldered out of the Saloon, leaving the patrons as well as the two new arrivals stewing in a shared thought of annoyance before the elder doctor spoke up.

"Jacob Taylor-Cobb. Mole rat of a man. Leader of convict chain-gang called Powder Gangers...known for heavy use of dynamite." Mordin explained as the four put away any weapons drawn. "Has been taken with the idea of terrorizing a town, taking over resources, bragging rights...anything to gain relevancy." He sighed after his usual draw of breath, straightening down his hair for what seemed to be the umpteenth time.

"Well, maybe someone should take the fight to them! Hell, why don't we?" Timothy volunteered, hating the sight of bullies such as Jacob.

"Good luck. They're not just here to take the town; they're here for someone: a guy named Ringo." The red-headed barmaid sighed as she leaned against the bar she protected for who-knows-how-long.

"Well, what a coin-y-dink; I'm looking for someone too!" The young man piped back, a spark of recognition lighting his features. "Specifically, the fink bastard who shot me and made me wind up here. Flat, emotionless voice, talks like a suave asshole, looks like a fucking walking checkerboard? Ringing any bells?" His explanation made more than a few people in the bar snicker, especially Mordin and the barmaid, who introduced herself as Trudy.

"Yeah, they came here not too long before you came; their leader, a guy the other two called Benny, was looking for some sort of chip and whoever was carrying it. Don't know what they wanted with some dumb old poker chip though, so I told them I didn't know." Trudy sighed, shifting her body to sit on a nearby rusty stool. "So they saw it fit to drink half my stock without paying _and_ mess up my radio before they up and left."

"Mention of destination?" Mordin questioned her, eager to know more.

"Well, they were having some kind of argument about it, but the guy in the checkerboard coat kept shushing them. Bunch of pricks. Anyways, one way to get the Powder Gangers out of here is to find this damn Ringo fella, see why they're hunting for him....and a few tweaks to my radio wouldn't hurt none, if you may." Tracy recounted as Timothy nodded, green eyes holding a glint of determination in them, eager to find not only find this 'Ringo' fellow, but to make both parties pay, the Powder Gangers _and_ that checkerboarded asshole known as Benny.

"Alright, then. Good luck to ya." Tracy sighed as she cleaned up the bar top, offering the two males a bottle each of somewhat-cold Sunset Sarsaparilla on the house.

"Right. Must find Ringo. Most likely where Gangers fail to look." Muttered Mordin between sips, his lightly wrinkled face in a grimace, his normally warm brown eyes turning steely as he and Timothy hunched over at the bar.

"Well, this town needs saving and an asshole needs shooting. Let's go looking...after I finish my soda." Timothy sighed as he downed the whole bottle, ignoring the faint jolt of sugar rushing through him as he led the good doctor out of the door and into the search for Ringo, the evening sky as their witness.


	4. Ghost Town Gunfight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timothy goes Ringo-hunting and takes the fight to the Powder Gangers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for enduring this story with me! Sorry that I'm not out of Goodsprings just yet; bear with me, please.
> 
> Firstly, college is back in session, which means that the updating schedule on all of my stories will be...sporadic, at best; gotta get an education somehow, faithful readers. But, look on the bright side, every update will be like a surprise~!
> 
> Secondly, I wholly apologize for stretching out the S.P.E.C.I.A.L. chapter of this story; I wanted to show you all how my nerdy little Engineer MaleShep gets made in true New Vegas style.
> 
> Kudos and comments have been and always will be GREATLY appreciated~!

The gas station. The fucking gas station was _right there_ , all this time, on that goddamn hill on the other side town. All this time. And it took them two damn hours to find it.

"Time, Timothy. Already night. Ringo most likely asleep, inside." Mordin puffed as he leaned against a blue workbench, slowly beginning to gain his second wind despite his age. Timothy, however, showed that his Luck wasn't always in his favor, evident in the wheezing he did as the sweat-drenched young man slumped against the long-forgotten and rusted body of what was once a fine car. Mordin couldn't help but chuckle and shake his head at the comically pathetic sight of the young Courier Six. "Again, time, Timothy. Would like to know the time, waking him up. Would _not_ like waste more time dawdling."

The redheaded Courier shuddered as he stood, checking his Pip-Boy for the time; "It's about 9 at night, Mordin. At least the sky looks nice, though." Timothy mumbled as he fiddled with it, trying to get a feel for how the machine functioned, feeling as if the machinations of devices came naturally to him.

"Would prefer the night sky peacefully, than full of gunpowder. Enjoy helping others. Plenty of ways to help; sometimes healing patients with Chakwas, sometimes executing dangerous people. Either way helps." Mordin smiled, one Courier Six returning the gesture as his second wind returned to him, leather armor already faintly groaning from the light stretching Timothy did as he pushed away from the car. "Now then, let's see if Ringo is awake." The good doctor declared, the tail of his grimy white lab coat gently whipping behind him as he walked to the abandoned gas station and opened the door, both males making doubly sure to be silent.

The inside was, as expected, a mess; shelves were toppled over and ransacked, cans and boxes of food littered nearly everywhere. On the counter was a cash register that was....now empty of six stacks of Pre-War money as well as a whopping 40 caps, followed by the two or three bottles of Sarsaparilla and 20 or so caps in the three soda crates next to the register. Behind the counter was a safe with a fairly average lock...and Ringo, fast asleep on a dirty mattress. The debate on who was to wake him was....handled well.

"Timothy. Wake him."  
"No way, doc. _Y_ _ou_ wake him."  
"Don't concur. Best that you wake him."  
"Bullcrap. You wake him, Mordin."  
"Will tell Trudy you refused. Resulting gunshot wounds and dog bites...not pleasant."  
"Ha! Oh, yeah? I'm going over that big head of yours if you don't wake him."  
"....Wouldn't. Couldn't. Chakwas would never."  
"Oh yeah, she would. Ooh, imagine the snappy wordplay she'll come up with then."

A voice cut through the banter like a hot knife through Brahmin shit.

"....The hell's going on? And who are you guys?"

So much for who's waking him up.

"Ah, awake. Evening, Ringo. Help is needed." Mordin greeted the startled young man, who sprung from his mattress and onto his feet, one hand already on his holster. This left the old doctor unfazed. "See that was quite an alarm. Ringo, we need your expertise." Mordin exposited as Timothy took over, the hand on Ringo's holster already somewhat shaky. 

"Ringo, the Powder Gangers are planning to sack Goodsprings. The doc and I can't take all of them down with just us two. We need an army to handle the Powder Gangers." The redheaded courier explained, hoping to suade the runaway to aid their cause. He shuffled from side to side, his answer coming in the form of a sigh.

"Alright. We do need a militia. I'm pretty sure Sunny Smiles is already on board, but the townspeople really rally around Trudy. If we can get both of them to back us up, we'd be pretty well off...save for their explosives." Ringo groaned, remembering the Powder Gangers' namesake as he began to round up his ammunition that lay hidden underneath the register. 

The doctor intervened, waving a hand through his hair as he chimed in. "Believe that a prospector is here. Has extensive...knowledge of dynamite. Also, a secret stash. Could give the town quite an advantage." He chirped as a smile crept up on Ringo's face, happy to hear of the sudden advantage the town had against the invading gang.  "Exactly. Covincing the prospector, however, not easy. Would use our supposed inexperience. Recommend we split the task of rallying the townsfolk; you handle Trudy and Sunny. Prospector should be swayed...easily." Mordin bargained, the other two males nodding in agreement as a knock was heard on the gas station door. 

All talk was then cut short.

Not wanting to be caught off-guard, Ringo took cover behind the register, shaky hand drawing his gun from his holster as the patched-up Courier advanced towards the door, the nervousness in the air becoming as heated as a shot from a plasma pistol barely grazing the face. The anxious redhead put an ear to the door, hoping to hear the voice of whoever is knocking on the other side. After a few seconds of strained hearing, he finally managed to catch a voice.

"Damn Gangers...Nobody's taking Goodsprings..."  
A woman's voice, no doubt about it. A voice he knew all too well.

"It's Sunny...", Timothy gasped softly, hope apparent in his voice as he called out to her, startling the other two. "Hey, Sunny?"

"Tim? Is that you? Is... _my supply bag_ in there, too?" She asked, choosing her words carefully for fear of Powder Gangers lurking about.

"Yup.  _Safe_ and sound. You can _get it_ , now." Timothy replied, catching on to Sunny's little scheme as he opened the door, Ringo preparing himself behind the counter all the while.

As the door opened, the cool Mojave night air was let in along with Sunny, the scent of agave nectar, irradiated dust, and a hint of Broc Flower hanging in the breeze as she stepped inside of the gas station, quickly shutting the door behind her.

"So, I see you found Ringo. And I guess that means you guys are thinking of a way to fight off the Powder Gangers. Say no more. I'm in." She grinned, the reason for her nickname finally becoming known as the doctor, the caravaneer, and the courier responded, slightly surprised.

"Really?! That easily?" The trio of males deadpanned, shock evident on their faces.

The boys' apparent surprise made Sunny's grin go wider. "Yup. Anything to help out the town."


	5. Run, Powder Gangers, Run!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the gunfight begin! After that, the Courier...wanders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for the long awaited update to the crossover that no-one expected to happen!

 

The sun rose over the sleepy town of Goodsprings, settlers and townsfolk armed to the teeth with shovels, pistols, shotguns, and leather armor, all of them ready to defend their home. The swirling dust on the ground climbed alongside the tension in the air as four figures, three human and one canine, made their way towards the Prospector's Saloon, the three with weapons out and ready. 

Trudy, de facto mayor and bartender, shotgun in hand, waved them over to her as they hid among the crates in waiting. Meanwhile, the group of Powder Gangers slithered towards the tiny town, their minds set on conquering a territory too small to take as they gathered grenades and dynamite aplenty; Taylor-Cobb led the pack, a poisonous sneer in his eye as he advanced towards the town.

The redheaded Courier Six trembled, not with fear, but with anxiety. The townsfolk were on edge, their hearts pounded with each footstep the Gangers took. The former Follower gripped his pistol, his wrinkled jaw set as the acrid smell of gunpowder and magnesium would soon fill his nose.

 

And then, that deafening ring of the first shot.

 

One settler took a slug to the shoulder, but refused to go out without taking a Ganger with her, nailing him with a lucky shot to the chest before a stick of dynamite took her down.   
Ringo, despite his slight cowardice, was happy to avenge her by filling a charging Ganger full of lead, taking a few hits to the arms from a wildly swinging baseball bat. He was quick enough to cover Doctor Mordin, who was quite content firing off round after round against the explosive-happy invaders.  
Timothy was firing off rounds from a 10 millimeter, crippling arms and legs aplenty as Cobb came charging at him with a bat. The Courier took a nasty hit to the shoulder, feeling the bone nearly pop out of its joint as he prepared to fire a shaky round into the leader's gut...

Until the deafening roar of explosives in the nearby barrels toppled the Gangers, giblets and limbs sent flying amidst the blinding smoke. As the gusts of desert wind cleared the smoke away, the outcome of the battle was as clear as day.

 

The Powder Gangers were no more. 

 

The residents of Goodsprings were shocked. Them, a bunch of settlers in a tiny little town...defeating a gang full of convicted criminals armed to the teeth with dynamite? Well, it was something worth cheering about! Something worth dancing and chugging drinks about! So, they did, after the townsfolk had finished beating down the door to Doctor Chakwas' place to heal the wounded.  
Later in the evening, the tiny town of Goodsprings celebrated their victory; Chet gave the townsfolk a 50 percent discount on his goods while Trudy held a victory party in the Prospector's Saloon to the tunes of "I've Got Spurs That Jingle Jangle Jingle", "Big Iron", and, oddly enough for the Courier, "Ain't That A Kick In The Head?" while the discounted booze and Sunset Sarsaparilla practically flowed from behind the counter and the swelling crowd of dancing and celebrating townsfolk. In the midst of the reveling raucous, Sunny Smiles managed to pull the redheaded Courier and the white-haired doctor aside and out of the saloon, Cheyenne barking happily behind her. 

"Hey, you two...thanks." She chuckled, tipping her hat to the both of them as Cheyenne circled around the pair. Sunny's bandages on her jaw throbbed a bit as she smiled, her aching muscles throbbing a bit as she both men into a short hug. "So, Timothy, was it? Well...now that you've saved us, what exactly are you going to do?" The young woman asked as she scratched behind the ears of her faithful companion, unknowing of the Courier's current...disposition as the radio switched to a song that was all too familiar to the young man.

_"Like that fella once said, ain't a kick in the head~?"_

_  
_ Timothy couldn't help but shiver as those words floated through the air, drifting towards his ears and making two certain stitched bullet holes throb at the familiar song. His heart began to pound as his green eyes darted about for a way to break away from the party, sweat beading down his scarred forehead before he was centered by the doctor's concerned hand on his shoulder. 

"Timothy? Something troubling you? Opened wound? Blood loss? Infected wound? ...Trauma?" Doctor Solus chattered with a lilt of concern in his voice, giving Timothy a quick once-over as he tried to probe at what could be ailing the young man.

The response was one that he had heard one too many times.

"W-What? No, no, Mordin, I'm fine..." Timothy sighed, shakily running a hand through messy, blood-stained auburn locks before diverting his attention to a half-finished bottle of whiskey, its neck having been shot off in the battle they had won earlier today. "I just...need to...go. Go...somewhere. Somewhere away from here..." He mumbled as he stumbled away from the barstool, dropping the empty bottle onto the counter before ambling out of the saloon and into the open outside as the dust began to cake his face. Mordin, ever concerned, trailed close behind him as the befuddled courier sat on the saloon's porch, head buried in his hands.

"Trauma, no doubt. Must be from bullet wounds. Need a...change of pace, Timothy?" The older redhead asked as he laid a scarred hand on the young man's shoulder before planting himself next to him. 

"I need...to find the guy that shot me," came the sighing reply.

"Surely not without a thank you and goodbye first. Hospitality is nice, gratitude much better-suited. Now, shall we find Chakwas before setting off?"

 

* * *

 

With packs nearly filled to the brim with food, water, and ammo, the pair of redheads set off on the road to Boulder City whilst bidding Goodsprings a fond farewell, the elderly man twirling his plasma pistol as he hummed and strutted along to Sinatra's "Blue Moon" for what felt like the hundredth time.

But the Courier didn't mind at all.

It certainly beats travelling alone with the radio.

 

 


End file.
